


Haunted

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst, Anniversary, Arthur is Arthur - Freeform, Dreams, Lancelot is a pissy bastard, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 23:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Lancelot and dreams sometimes do not mix well.





	Haunted

Lancelot wakes from a dream.

Arthur, bare-chested, seated on his bed, his father’s horrid cross hanging around his neck. Lancelot knows he should be looking at Arthur, not at the piece of jewelry, but the plain silver thing shines so brightly he continues to stare at only it.

The leather cord it hangs on is soft and pliable – he knows from touching it when Arthur’s sleeping, several times hiding it from the other man out of pure spite – and Lancelot wonders if it would break easily.

It’s the middle of the night, and he slips out of the bed and pushes Arthur’s window open. The garrison is mostly quiet, although Lancelot being the man he is can hear horses snorting and the creak and flap of flags in the winter wind. He’s wearing old leggings and his skin goose-pimples as he leans against the sill, the brick chilled and stiff feeling, rough against his forearms. Arthur turns in the bed, but Lancelot doesn’t look at him. Instead, he sees the image his dreams have conjured – himself and Arthur, the commander bare-chested, the cross hanging over his heart, taunting, sliding over Arthur’s lightly fuzzed muscles.

Lancelot closes his eyes, and the dream rises, taking shape -

_He slides onto Arthur’s lap, his knees compressing the other man’s hips, and without warning he takes hold of the leather cord the cross is hung upon and twists, jerking his hand and tugging Arthur toward him. The brazier cracks and the room is too hot and yet Lancelot doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything save pull at the hated jewelry, his other hand rising to touch the soft hair over Arthur’s chest. The hair seems gold in the firelight, but the fucking cross and its simple trappings have him mesmerized._

What are you doing?

I don’t know.

_He snatches at Arthur again, jerking the commander to him finally, and in a movement more like punishment than want, tears the leather cord from Arthur’s neck, tosses the cross behind them, and as Arthur turns his head to follow its trajectory, Lancelot’s fingers pull Arthur’s face to his and his lips capture the other man’s, deep and burning and – _

“Lancelot?”

He opens his eyes. The ice from the brick at his forearms bites, and he lurches away from the seat by the window, the familiar seat strange to him and not a place he wants to be, and yet neither is the bed with Arthur’s body in it.

The dreamed about cross shifts over Arthur’s chest as the commander sits up, scrubbing at his face. His fingers leave marks on his skin, and Lancelot’s cock suddenly throbs, another type of mark from Arthur making itself remembered. He crosses to the bed and cants his head, staring down at the other man. The brazier crackles and the wind seems to shift the entire fortress.

“Why do you wear that?”

Arthur looks at him muzzily; he sits up further and rubs his face again. “What are you referring to?”

“That.”  
  
Lancelot points, all his vehemence, all the hatred and all the unsuspected love he feels for this man in the gesture, his arm and hand shaking slightly. “That thing.”

Arthur picks up the cross from his chest, looking down at it, then up at Lancelot. “You know why. Why on earth are you asking?” He shoots a sharp breath out of his nose and sticks his own hand out. “Come back –” he starts, but Lancelot has flung his slender body into Arthur’s one leather covered chair.

“No,” he says. “Not until you take it off.”

“Lancelot,” Arthur answers slowly. “I’m not sure where this came from, but –”

Lancelot slouches further, the weirdness and unwanted feeling from his dream running through his brain, a riderless horse, no control, no wants save fear and the desire to _get away._ “Your God doesn’t want me. If _you_ do, take it off.”

_Take it off, put it away, otherwise I may never come back here._

He has no clue why this has suddenly appeared, but after eight years with Arthur, and after almost twelve of knowing the other man, Lancelot has given up on making sense out of his own thoughts when it comes to the Roman. He shrugs and shifts; taking up the flask of wine they’d not finished earlier, and swigs from it.

Arthur’s wide-awake now, and he touches the cross again. “You know I do.” He meets Lancelot’s gaze dead on, no shame in admitting his feelings – Lancelot smiles, a bright, dangerous, feral-cat grin, knowing Arthur is only capable of speaking his desire out loud because they are alone, in the commander’s quarters where no one can hear them. Where no one knows what Arthur actually feels.

The dream lays heavy on Lancelot; _he twists the cord and the thing pops, like sinew in a hamstrung leg._ “Take it off, Arthur, or I’m leaving.”

“Where did this come from?” Arthur slides out of bed, his naked flanks shining in the light from the brazier. “What is wrong?” He steps to where Lancelot is sat, but the knight just stares, and time stretches, and the coal snaps and winter beats at the glass, aching to come in, to freeze them both to the spot and take any and all warmth away. Lancelot stares and narrows his golden brown eyes, and Arthur, finally, staring at him still, slowly pulls the cord and the cross over his head. He stands at Lancelot’s feet, and the knight rises, and pushes Arthur back toward the bed. He takes the cross in his hand, and in an echo of the dream, flings it toward the corner of the room.

It tinkles as it hits the brick wall, and Arthur’s eyes follow it, but Lancelot turns his head with his fingers and knocks Arthur onto the furs that cover the bed, and takes his mouth again, hot, wet, desire filling his body and Arthur murmurs his name, a benediction, the cross forgotten.

When Lancelot dreams of Arthur again, the cross isn’t present, although the next time he sees the commander in the waking world, it’s hanging under his tunic, the lump of silver almost visible through the fabric.

Lancelot laughs, and Arthur looks at him, and the knight knows the dream tonight will be different, again.

~

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the 15th anniversary of King Arthur. I don't do too much "original" work featuring these two anymore (I think I've told most of what I can!) but they still talk upon occasion, and I want to listen to them, even if it's something I've sort of said before.
> 
> That being said, I've had this image in my head of Lancelot sitting astride Arthur and twisting his father's cross, snarling, so this came of that. Not sure if it was my own dream, or just an idea that showed up. I've been rewatching the horrid Camelot show that was on Starz several years ago, so I've got all Arthur's on the brain.
> 
> I have another idea in the works, so we'll see. Thank you again to everyone/anyone who reads/kudos/comments. Y'all are the best. xo


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